Once Upon a Time
by Limonata
Summary: Oneshot. MerDer futurefic. / Every night for the past week, she has asked to hear a story. You've never been sure what to say. Your mother never told you stories. Not even when you asked. / COMPLETE.


_**Author's Note:** Since my hard drive is off getting its teeth cleaned, I thought maybe I'd put this up. (This is what we call 'consolation prize', ladies and_—_gentlemen?) I polished it up a little and... here you go. It's exactly eight pages in Word. It's the first second-person I've made publicly available, and it has a few other quirks as well. Please let me know what you think. _

_All disclaimers apply._

* * *

**Once Upon a Time**

"Once upon a time," you hear him begin, down the hall in your daughter's room. She asked for Daddy to tuck her in tonight, and you were glad. Glad not because you didn't want to tuck her in, but because he'd had three late surgeries recently and it was about time he got to do it.

But you're also a little relieved. Tonight you can have a long bath and paint your toenails and read water-warped magazines. You're glad he's back in time for you to have some space.

You got into this 'me time' idea early tonight. As soon as you got home you changed from your sweater and jeans into your much-beloved Dartmouth sweatshirt. The ratty t-shirt wasn't warm enough for this night, so you pulled out the sweats. Grey pants and a grey sweatshirt. (You were loyal to your name.) The sweatshirt was the only thing that had contained the two of you at the end. Its cooperation made you love it more, as if it had decided to please you. It didn't mind getting spattered with pickle juice, you recalled fondly as you fingered it. And it hadn't gotten permanently stretched, either. (If only your body was poly-blend.)

Today was the first time you were home for supper this week, and you got to give her a proper meal: grilled cheese with a glass of milk. But your determination diminished as you frowned at the plate, tapping a finger against your teeth as you studied it. Finally, with a sigh, you took a fistful of ready-made salad from the bag and dropped it on the side. There. Colorful. (You were pleased with yourself.) Finally you've got the hang of this 'balance' thing.

You're on your way to the tub when you hear them. It's another story night, you guess. (Not that you're surprised.)

Every night for the past week she has asked to hear a story. It's always once you've already read to her, when the lights are off and you're just breathing her in. She waits until your arms are around her, her head resting on your shoulder, the blankets tucked around her tightly. And then she asks.

You've never been sure what to say. Your mother never told you stories. Not even when you asked.

You've bumbled along just twice about a princess who lived in a castle, hoping that she would fall asleep before she realized there was no plot. Sometimes you recount the tales Izzie told her before she was born, late at night when the two of you were on call and she was kicking too much to let you sleep. Izzie's stories always had a princess and a castle and a prince who came and said things. (You envied her ability to relate to your daughter.)

But that was years ago now and you can hardly remember anything but those three ingredients. Princess + prince + castle. Sometimes you wish you could ask Izzie how they went specifically, but you're sure he'll know. You've been waiting so eagerly for a chance for him to tell her a tale, because you're certain it will be magnificent. You just know that he had a childhood rich with color and imagination. (You know the woman you now refer to as Grandma would make sure of it.)

You've reached the doorway and you peek around the door. He's half-sitting, half-lying with her next to him, snuggled in. Her little bedside light is still on and as you watch you hear a phlegm-filled cough and he pats her back soothingly. He looks up and catches your eye and smiles in that way. It's a cousin of the way he smiled at you at the first ultrasound, and the first time you heard her heartbeat, and when she was born. It's a smaller version of the same smile he gave you when Izzie lifted her up, pink and scrawny and disgruntled with her tiny brow furrowed as she gazed around. When she took her first steps, said her first word, and he'd look at you and you'd look at him. (You were the only two people that had ever felt that way in the history of the world.)

This smile isn't as big as that one, not as euphoric. This one is smaller, more tired. It's not new anymore, but that's okay. (You don't mind. This is better.) 'Cause now you know each other, the three of you, and that's worth more than anything in the world.

You realize what you just said and realize that the old you would be trying valiantly not to gag right now.

You send a defiant shrug to your old self as you gaze into your daughter's room. You don't care. Your husband and your daughter are so close. You feel alive, more alive than ever. It's like the most beautiful painting you'd ever made was right there and could converse with you.

_You made her._ (She was part of you for nine months, and you didn't fail her.)

"Once upon a time," he repeats, a few moments after the first. You almost hope she doesn't notice because this whole thing is making your heart hurt in a really good way, plus you don't want to interrupt bedtime. But she looks up to see what the holdup was. And that's okay too. (Her eyes set upon you and her face lights up.)

_No. This is better._

"Mommy!" she calls, stretching out her little hand to you. You smile and come in, heading for her bed. He's by the edge and she's in the middle, and there's enough room for you on her other side. You clamber up the blankets and press a kiss to first her forehead and then his mouth, and even all these years later you repress a smirk. (There's another reason you're glad he's home early tonight.)

"Where were we?" you ask, settling in. Your arm is wrapped around her small body and his arm has wrapped around you, and she's cocooned in the middle. Her hair's longer, you realize suddenly, and it hits you with a jolt of sadness. A mommy shouldn't notice when her child's hair is longer. (She shouldn't have been away that long.)

You haven't been _away_, just busy. You haven't lain like this for a while, that's all.

(Right?)

"We were just about to meet the fairy princess," she informs you sternly. "Now shh."

You smile.

"Feisty," he notes, and you know he's secretly proud.

"She's bossy," you agree, and the two of you share a smile over her head. "Keeps us in line."

The plan _had_ always been for a little you, after all. (But plans are meant to be broken.)

The dark curls spilling over her shoulders are from him, and so are her clear blue eyes. She has your nose, and you know you're both glad about that. She got your small frame, too, and you know she's going to break hearts someday.

You hope it won't be hers. You'll do anything.

(You know it will happen anyway.)

She looks at you inquisitively and you smile back, shaking your concerns away. There's plenty of time for that in the next decade or so. (You know she'll get started young like you.)

"You know what?" he says, eyeing you appraisingly. There's a glint in his eyes and you're not quite sure what it means.

(But you're game to find out.)

"What?" she asks eagerly.

"I think maybe it's time you heard a true story," he tells her seriously. He meets your eyes over her head and when he smiles you know exactly where he's going with this.

"Once upon a time," she prompts, ready to snuggle in with Gorgonzola, the blue stuffed monkey of uncertain parentage that had been by her side from day one.

"Once upon a time," you agree, "there was a girl."

"A woman," he corrects. "A _beautiful_ woman."

You mock-glare at him. "There was a woman who some may describe as attractive," you offer in compromise.

He huffs. "Mommy's confused," he tells your daughter, and you swat him, "so Daddy's going to tell the story."

You roll your eyes.

He clears his throat for show. "As I was saying," he begins, "there was a woman. This woman was the most beautiful, amazing woman in the history of the world," he tells her seriously, and her eyes widen, impressed. He nods conspiratorially. "Oh, yes. She was gorgeous. Her hair was made of spun gold, and her eyes were emerald."

"Emerald!" squeaks the girl who is your daughter, turning to you for confirmation. You glance at him in sheepish irritation, and he looks at you expectantly.

"Yes," you concede grudgingly. "Some might say so."

(You will be _having words _with him later.)

"Oh, no, it's scientific fact," he insists. She nods, satisfied. "But," he continues importantly, "the beautiful woman was sad."

"Why?" she asks, sad herself. She gets caught up in stories. (You almost envy her for it.)

"Because…" He glances at you for help.

"Because the woman had a mean mommy," you supply. (He looks like he wants to kiss you.)

(Not that it's rare.)

She nods understandingly. "The queen?" she clarifies. The only bedtime stories she knows are of royalty. (It makes you sad.)

"No," you hasten to correct. "The woman was no princess."

(The words are truer than you'd like.)

"The mean mommy," he persists, catching her attention once more. (So you can blink a tear from your eye.) "She was _very _mean."

"She wasn't that mean," you interrupt. (She was her grandmother after all.)

He continues on regardless. "She had red eyes," he squinted at her, "and _sharp claws_ and breathed _fire_," he imparts meaningfully. (Her eyes widen in delight.)

"So the woman was sad," you interrupt. (You have to protect your baby girl.)

"Sad," he nods.

"Because of the mommy," she agrees.

"That is correct, wise one." (It's an intonation, really.)

She giggles.

"The girl—"

"Woman," you remind him.

"The woman liked to—" He pauses. "She made new friends when she was sad."

(He makes it make sense.)

"And sometimes the new friends were mean too," he reminds her. (You remember.)

"But one night…"

"The most important night in—a very long time," you add.

"Absolutely. On the most important night in a very long time, the beautiful woman met a handsome man," he says. You want to hear what comes next, and yet… you don't.

"Was the hansum man made outta gold too?" she wonders.

"No," you tell her. "No. The man was made out of…" You see him watching in anticipation and you smirk. "He was made out of, well, some would say he had gorgeous, dark hair and indigo eyes," you decide.

He grins. "And would the beautiful woman say that, if one were to ask her?"

You pretend to think. "She might not say it, but she'd think it—probably," you add, for the sake of anonymity.

(This seems to appease him.)

He checks on her and continues. "The handsome man was very nice to the woman." He smirks at you and you roll your eyes. "They did all of the woman's favorite things."

"My favorite thing is the swings. Did the woman like the swings?"

You nod. "She did, sweets."

Her face contorts with confusion. "But it was nighttime."

You pause. "Yes."

(Uh-oh.)

"Then how did she go on the swings at night?" she asks you.

You have an idea. "What do you like about the swings?"

(You don't want to pervert her.)

She concentrates. "It feels like you're flyin', and like you can touch the sky," she tells you. "Is that what the woman liked about the swings?"

You nod. (She puts it better than you ever could.)

"Sometimes," you break in before he mutters something dirty that will tip her off, "sometimes grownups like to do that, at night," you tell her. (You _will_ her to stop asking.) "It's a little different to the swings, though, hon."

Her brow clears. "Oh."

"It's fun, though," he adds. "Even though it's a little different."

"Yeah," you agree. You make the 'shut up' face. He notices and hurries with the story.

"So the next day, the handsome man and the beautiful woman met again." He chuckles. "The woman was very startled and she yelled at the man."

"Why did she yell at the man?" she asks.

He looks at you also. There's a teasing grin on his face. "Yes, why _did_ the beautiful woman yell at the man?"

"Because… because the beautiful woman was worried. She knew the handsome man was up to no good," you say.

(Payback at last.)

"Oh," she nods, and you thank god she doesn't ask any more questions.

"The handsome man was only up to no good because he wasn't thinking of anything but the beautiful woman," he adds dejectedly.

(You kiss it better.)

"And _then_, the man's mommy—" he says hurriedly. (He skips almost two years. Interesting.)

"Uh-uh-uh," you warn. "Not so fast."

His expression in one word – meek. Clearly he does not want his daughter to think he is pond scum.

"There _was_ another woman," you admit.

"His mama?!" she giggles, having heard the misleading clue.

You shake your head. "Nope," you reply mysteriously.

She cranes her head to look up at you. "Who then?" she asks, in a way that makes you think she thinks you're not being entirely honest.

(Excellent question.)

"The woman was an old friend of the handsome man," you decide finally.

"Was she mean?"

He looks at you expectantly.

"No," you say honestly. "She was hurt."

"How?"

Oh, crap.

"Dodgeball, hon," you answer smoothly. "She got hit in the shin with a dodgeball."

"What's a shin?" she asks you suspiciously.

You're surprised. You're not sure why. "The shin is this part right here," you tell her, and you tap her little leg. She shrieks with laughter.

"See, the woman was hit by a ball, and so she was hurt," you fib. There's no way you're getting into the truth.

She resettles. It's a reasonable answer.

"See, the man and his friend and the woman played dodgeball a lot," he continues, taking your clue. "And one day, the man came home to find the friend and the woman—" He falters.

"The friend and the woman were playing on the swings without the man," you say, and her face falls.

"Poor man," she says sadly. "That was mean."

"Yes, sweetheart," he agrees. "But it was good, because then the man met the beautiful woman."

You make a face.

"More!" she commands.

"And so the, um, dodgeball woman, you see, she was very sorry. So she came to find the handsome man, because…" You trail off. This is more complex than you'd wanted.

"'Cause she loved him?" she supplies expectantly.

(Out of the mouths of the babes.)

"Yeah," he sighs, and you elbow him. "But it was too late," he says softly to you. "The handsome man had already met the beautiful woman."

"Was the beautiful woman prettier than the other woman?" she asks you.

"N—"

"Oh, yes," he breaks in. "The beautiful woman was more beautiful than _every_ woman. And she was more wonderful than every other woman in the _universe_! And not only that," he continues with a small smirk, "she was very, _very_ good on the swings."

You feel your face flushing. You have to put an end to this. "One day, the beautiful woman was sad."

Her eyes widen. "Then what happened?" she prompts.

(The truth always comes out.)

"The beautiful woman was sad 'cause of her mommy."

"Poor her," says the beautiful woman's daughter.

"How 'bout Mommy tells this part of the story?" you ask. She nods and you continue.

"That day, there was a _big_ crash, in the water, and people were sick," you gloss over. "And the beautiful woman and the handsome man were doctors. They went to make people feel better." You try not to remember the details of that day.

"But the beautiful woman _fell_ into the water," you emphasize. "She fell because a pa—a sick man knocked her over."

She gasps. "Did she drowned?"

Your silence tips her off. "The beautiful woman died?" she sniffles.

"Oh, honey, no," you say quickly. "It's okay."

"How do you know?" she whispers, looking up at you with big, sad eyes.

"Because the story ends well, sweets," you say finally. "Do you want to hear the rest? The next part's important."

She looks over at him and he nods. "I'd like to hear the rest. It's okay," he tells her. "I promise."

They both look at you and you're not sure what to say now. "The man found her and pulled her out of the water, but the beautiful woman was sick. She was sleeping, and she had a—" You look at him. It looks like he doesn't know what to do about that either.

"She had a dream," you whisper near your daughter's ear. "She had a dream, and in the dream, a man named Denny told her what would happen if she didn't come back. The man named Denny told the woman what had happened to the man, and that made the woman realize that she really wanted to wake up. See, hon, the woman was trying very hard to come back to the man—"

"Because she loved him," he breathes. "Meanwhile, the beautiful woman's mommy was getting very sick; her heart was sick. The man was mad at her for all the things she'd said to the beautiful woman. But… but the mommy died, even though the man tried to save her."

"The beautiful woman _and_ her mommy died?" she cries. "I don't wanna hear more."

"Shh," you say, and she turns over and rolls into you. She snuffles into your sweatshirt and you wrap your arms around her. "It's about to get really, really good. I promise."

"Did the beautiful woman wake up?" she hiccups.

You nod tearfully, despite yourself. "But before that, the beautiful woman saw her mommy."

"She _did_?!" asks your daughter, pulling back to scrutinize you. "You're not makin' this up?"

"I don't think so," you say honestly, and you stroke her wet hair back from her face. "I think this really happened. The beautiful woman saw her mommy, and—" You lean in close "—the mommy hugged her. The mommy told the woman that she was _anything_ but ordinary, and then, the beautiful woman woke up."

"Then what?" She's smiling now, and it's amazing.

"Does the story start ending well?" he asks you.

(He wants to skip ahead.) You nod. It's getting late, not to mention it's not so much PG anymore.

"Then, not very long after that, the handsome man surprised the beautiful woman in an elevator."

"In a '_levator_!" she giggles. "That's silly."

"Uh-uh," you correct playfully. "It was amazing. The beautiful woman loved it."

"And then the handsome man told the beautiful woman that he wanted to marry her," he says softly. "And the beautiful woman agreed."

"Then?!" she demands. She's sitting up, facing both of you.

(Not such a sleep-inducing story, then.)

"Then, um, the man and the woman went on the swings," you speak fast, "and the man gave the woman the ring that his daddy had given to his mommy."

"A _marry ring_?" she breathes eagerly.

"Yup." You nod. _And you'll get it one day_. (But what happened to anonymity?)

"And then after that, the man and the woman built a house on a hill," he says proudly. "Like they'd wanted all along. And they got married, and the beautiful woman had never looked so beautiful."

"Yeah?" she asks softly.

"Yeah," he agrees, kissing you.

"Eurgh," she groans loudly. You pull away.

"Sorry," you smile. (But you're not.)

"And now for the best part," you stage-whisper. You pull her up. "But all little girls have to be tucked up in bed for this."

She wriggles down under the covers and lies very carefully. "I'm ready."

"The beautiful woman and the handsome man had a baby," you tell her softly.

"They both loved the baby very, very much," he chimes in. "She was amazing, and sweet, and very smart."

"And they all lived happ'ly ever after?" she confirms sleepily.

You kiss her cheek. "They do."

_This is the story you'll always remember._


End file.
